


All My Resistance Will Never Be Distance Enough

by justsammich



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Inception piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:59:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justsammich/pseuds/justsammich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He changes phones and only gives his number to Cobb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Resistance Will Never Be Distance Enough

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Wreck of the Day by Anna Nalick.
> 
> Other warnings: Canon character death.

His phone is vibrating insistently in the pocket of his trousers left in a heap somewhere on the floor; Arthur ignores it even as it begins again. It’s loud enough for both of them to hear, but neither of them moves to check the missed calls. Eames wouldn’t let him if he tried anyway, so he resigns himself to trying to ignore it. Eames laughs softly, the sound rumbling through him like thunder as Arthur sighs.

“Popular, aren’t you, darling?”

Like the phone, Arthur ignores him. It’s easier dealing with… whatever this is between them by speaking as little as possible; a concept Eames has yet to fully comprehend. The Forger presses a kiss to the top of his head, laughing again and mumbling something into his hair that Arthur doesn’t quite catch over the buzzing of his phone. It’s better that way, he thinks as he sighs and tries to relax against the solid body beside him.

His phone eventually goes silent, and Arthur drifts off wondering how many voicemails he’ll have to check in the morning as he slips out before Eames wakes.

  


Each call is from Cobb, each more desperate than the last. Mal is dead, killed herself, and where the fuck was he? Arthur doesn’t return Eames’ call, asking who had been trying so hard to get a hold of his dear Arthur last night, and instead books the earliest flight to Los Angeles.

  


It’s raining, and it seems very fitting given the circumstances. Arthur stands at Cobb’s side as the preacher reads psalms and passages from a book that Arthur’s never read. Religion and faith in an unseen being have no place in their line of work, he thinks as James and Phillipa cling to their father’s hands. There is no afterlife; there are no gates of white waiting to beckon good souls in. There is death and a box six feet under, and Arthur feels like his tie is knotted too tight. He inhales shakily and has to keep from balling his fists or cracking his knuckles or something, anything to do with his hands.

Arthur excuses himself from the group after the coffin—Mal’s coffin—is lowered into the ground, and he watches Cobb’s mother-in-law shepherd the children away from their father and toward a man who screams lawyer with his cheap suit and narrowed eyes. She has no right, he thinks, but there’s little he can do. Cobb had explained it all—his version of _all_ , anyway; Arthur was sure there was more to be told. Mal had had a plan, had made all the right phone calls, laid all the right plans that would leave Cobb with nothing. A part of Arthur hated her for it, but he had grown to love the woman just has he had grown to love their children, and all that revelation had caused as a violent ache that hadn’t gone away.

“Mores the pity, that.”

He glances over at Eames, who stands in all his fashionless glory not an arm’s length away. His suit fits too snugly and the shirt he’s wearing is an ugly shade of maroon that should never have been imagined. Eames doesn’t look back at him, and Arthur is grateful for small favors.

“Makes you wonder if she was planning it all along, yeah? Never could quite—“

“You know nothing about either of them, Mr. Eames,” Arthur bites out. “So kindly keep your mouth shut.” But then, the same could be said for him, he concedes. He had thought he knew them well enough, knew _Mal_ well enough, but he had never imagined her capable of something such as this. Arthur exhales shakily, the wind leaving his sails, and he hangs his head for a moment; rain drips from his disheveled hair and onto his lashes, and Arthur can pretend it’s just the rain and not him losing control.

Eames puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently before he walks toward the group that Arthur had walk away from. He watches him speak with Cobb and Miles before going over to speak with children he’s only met once or twice; he makes them laugh, and again, Arthur is grateful for small favors.

  


It’s a bad idea. He knows this even as blunt fingernails scrape down his back and lips trace the column of his neck. Arthur knows it’s a bad idea, but if any time was the right time for bad ideas, it was then. He had tried to sit in the overwhelming silence of his own hotel room, tried to concentrate on the rain that was terribly uncharacteristic for the time of year, but all he had managed to accomplish was breaking a lamp in a very un-Arthur like manner. Always cool, always calm, always collected, and that was bullshit, and Arthur had not known where else to turn.

He gasps as Eames sucks a bruise into his skin just below his collarbone, and Arthur drags a hand through his hair as he pulls the Forger up, desperate and needing to know that someone is whole and not falling to pieces over the shock of losing someone close. He kisses Eames without finesse and the Forger returns the favor, his hands framing Arthur’s face as the two of them fall back against his mattress; the sheets are still pulled taut and Arthur knows that had they been a mess, had they been there to get tangled in, Arthur would not be in this position. Reality would have come whooshing back and he would have broken down in a more common, more acceptable way.

Eames doesn’t talk, doesn’t try to fix things with words, but Arthur can see what he wants to say whenever their eyes meet. _It’s going to be okay, darling; I’ll take care of you, love; I’m sorry._ He closes his eyes, his nails clawing at the pillows as Eames fucks him with a gentleness and fluidity Arthur wouldn’t have thought him capable had he not experienced it before. He shivers when Eames presses feather-light kisses to his back, his shoulder, anywhere he can reach, and Arthur manages to hold back sobs that have nothing to do with the sex or the person trying to hold him together in this admittedly unusual way. His back arches as he comes apart, Eames whispering too softly to hear over his harsh breathing, and the two of them lay silently with the hotel sheets kicked down to the foot of them, waiting for morning; neither of them sleeps.

  


Arthur works a few jobs in Tokyo and Mumbai after Mal’s funeral. He changes phones and only gives his number to Cobb—Just in case, he says to the voicemail box of a number he’s not even sure is his friend’s anymore. He loses touch with Eames, and Arthur tells himself that the ache in his chest is still from Mal, still from losing such a close friend, but he knows it’s a lie when he lies awake at night.

  


 _He looks tired_ , Arthur thinks as he watches Cobb out of the corner of his eye. His friend leans casually back in his seat, a man enjoying his beer to passersby. Arthur sees something else entirely. He sees a man on the run that doesn’t look as though he’s had a good night’s sleep in months—something they would both have in common—a man that is carefully cataloguing every face that walks through the door Arthur has his back to. Cobb had hastily taken the seat facing the door with a nervous smile when the two of them had ventured in to find a table. Arthur wants to say he’s being paranoid, but he knows he’s not and knows it’s not the right thing to say.

“Heard about that job in Mumbai you pulled—what was it—a month ago?” Cobb says, his eyes flickering to Arthur’s face briefly before returning to the door that hasn’t opened in several minutes. He’s tense, and Arthur sighs and responds with “Yes, a month ago, but I only ran point, so it wasn’t technically _my_ job.”

A smile graces his friend’s face for a quick moment, and it’s one of the nicest things Arthur’s seen since before that dreadful day. “Saved your team’s ass, though, from the way I hear things,” he says. “Don’t sell yourself short; you’re not the best for nothing, Arthur.”

“Don’t tell me you contacted me to swap war stories, Cobb,” Arthur says before bringing his wine glass to his lips. “Because that would be terrible way to spend the evening.”

Dom Cobb laughs for the first time in what must be ages, and he is caught off guard by the sound. It’s the same as it’s always been, but it’s laced with a desperate undertone that only men with nothing to lose carry with them at all times. Arthur looks pointedly at the table for a moment, the sound both welcome and uncomfortable, before looking back at his friend. He’s greeted with another smile, and he returns a tense one before swallowing most of the wine in his glass in an attempt to dull the edges of the harsh sound.

“You hear from Eames lately?” is the last thing Cobb asks him as they walk to the apartment Arthur has nearer the Eiffel Tower. Arthur pretends not to hear the question and tells him to tell Miles he sends his regards.

  


He finds himself in London staring up at the brownstone he’s spent a few nights in. The windows are dark, but even if they weren’t, Arthur would know no one was home. Eames rarely stays in London anymore, even though he keeps the house and the expenses it includes.

 _Weather’s terrible here, darling; why on earth would I_ choose _to stay here?_

Arthur boards a red eye from London to Los Angeles with gifts for Phillipa and James in his carry-on, and he tries to remember a number he’d long since forced himself to forget.

  


“This is loads better than the last outfit I worked with; so much more organized and not as much gunfire in the background.”

Arthur looks up from his workspace, his lungs failing him as that familiar voices booms through the warehouse where they’ve set up camp. Eames is loud— _he’s always loud_ , he thinks—and he has a way of taking up an entire space with simply his voice. And a part of Arthur hates him for it; he truly does. He glances over at their architect, a pretty young thing named Genevieve, who stares wide-eyed at the grinning Brit who’s marveling at their less than stellar workplace. She looks as though she’s never heard of such a thing, gunfire reporting regularly beyond the safe walls of a makeshift headquarters, and he wonders where on earth Eames has been to have encountered such a thing.

“Everyone,” Freddie—he insists everyone calls him Freddie, and it annoys Arthur—says to no one and everyone at once. “This is Mr. Eames, our forger.” Genevieve comes around her table and goes to shake his hand, so does their other team mate who’s more or less an extra body to cause more problems as far as Arthur’s concerned. He settles back into his seat and continues going over the dossiers spread out over his desk, his fist curled so tightly around the pen in his hand that it threatened to snap.

“And who’s that hiding in the—Bleeding. Arthur, is that you, love?” Something akin to realization flits through Eames’ voice, something close to awe, but it’s gone in an instant, and Arthur pretends to have imagined it as he looks up at the man sauntering toward his desk. “Been a long time, yeah? Haven’t seen you since—“ Arthur’s jaw tightens. “—that job in Moscow; that was ages ago. Glad to see that stick hasn’t gotten you killed, darling.”

“Good to see you, too, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says cordially, coolly, and he looks away when he sees the formality wound the light in Eames’ eye. “Now if you wouldn’t mind, some of us have work to do.” He returns his attention to the manila folders in front of him, looks back at the faces of the mark and the people in his life and the other aspects of his life that are necessary for this to go off without a hitch, and Eames stands there for a moment, hands in his pockets of his wrinkled grey trousers, before saying, “Yeah, yeah. Always with the professionalism, Arthur; you really need to learn to have fun, pet.”

 _Cobb had fun_ , Arthur thinks as Eames acquaints himself with everyone else on the team. _And it brought him nothing but misery._

  


“Why do you use Edith Piaf for your countdowns, Arthur?” Genevieve asks, and Arthur looks over at her as he pulls the IV from his arm. He winces slightly; it had been awhile since he’d last gone under.

“Because, dear Genevieve,” Eames begins, “Arthur was born in the wrong time, you see. He’s far too old to pick something current and fun.” He grins when Arthur glares at him and hands him his own IV like it’s the most precious thing Arthur will ever receive from him.

“It couldn’t be because it’s something noticeable,” Arthur says, “that would be far too logical, wouldn’t it.”

Eames laughs softly, something that had once been an intimate sound that was now shared with everyone. “It’s only noticeable if you don’t listen to it regularly, pet,” he says, leaning in as he passed by the table Arthur is busying himself at. “Otherwise it’s just background noise, and no one knows it’s coming.”

“He used it when you two worked together?” Genevieve asks as Arthur clicks the PASIV briefcase shut.

“Yeah,” Eames says, settling back into one of the previously vacated chairs. “He’s predictable that way.”

  


“How does someone as great as you, if you don’t mind me saying,” Not-Eames says as the two of them stroll down the unnamed bridge that looks uncannily similar to boardwalk beneath the Blue Water Bridge in Port Huron. “Get coerced to work with a bunch of kids who know nothing of the craft, love?” He’s forged himself in a familiar blonde vixen that Arthur thinks looks like someone who belongs in a seedy club rather than in the dreams of businessmen. Eames looks over at him, and Arthur pointedly ignores his comments as they walk, his back starting to ache even in the dream.

“As talkative as always, I see,” he says, painted lips turned down in a sulk.

“Keep your mind on the job, Mr. Eames.”

  


The job goes off with few problems and Arthur packs up and excuses himself before Eames can notice he’s gone. He’s on a plane heading for Toronto, his hand clenched around the loaded die in his trousers pocket, before the sun comes up.

  


Arthur checks the time on his watch when the buzzer sounds at his door. It’s a quarter after one in the morning— _and why am I still up?_ He wonders—and he hopes that if he ignores it, it will go away. He turns his attentions back to his laptop and the folder open beside it. Cobb had called about a possible job earlier that day—yesterday?—and Arthur had gone to work like the dutiful worker Cobb knew him to be. Arthur frowns at the small print, the incessant buzzing down the hall droning on and on and on, and he pinches the bridge of his nose after pulling his glasses away from his face. He knows in his gut who it is at his door, just as he knows if he’s quiet enough, he’ll go away. He always does.

The noise eventually stops and Arthur goes to his bedroom to wait for the sun to come up like he did ages ago. The only difference is that this time he is alone.

  


He works with Cobb a few times after the job where Eames came back into his carefully constructed life, and it’s almost the same as how it used to be. There is only a giant, Mal-shaped hole that is sometimes filled by Cobb’s violent projection of her; she shoots Arthur on their fourth job together for the first time, but he isn’t mad, isn’t nervous, and definitely doesn’t think that this is Cobb’s way of getting revenge for not answering the phone.

  


“Fancy seeing you here, Arthur,” Eames says taking a seat. “It’s been too long, Cobb, how are you?” Arthur watches them shake hands, watches how Eames only looks at Cobb for a moment before looking back at him. He sips his coffee, not acknowledging the man who’s joined them.

“Too long,” Cobb repeats and adds something about him being glad to see that Eames hasn’t been locked up or worse. The two of them laugh, and Arthur remains silent and thinks that this is punishment for… something, he isn’t sure of what. They chat about the job, and Arthur only corrects Cobb on a few points that he’s muddied through his own less-than-stellar research. Eames laughs and tells him, “Good thing you’ve got Arthur around; guy knows everything about everyone.”

Arthur leaves under the pretense of another meeting when the two of them order another cup of coffee.

  


Their architect is a guy named Nash. He looks unprofessional in Arthur’s eyes, but then if you didn’t look and act like himself or Dom Cobb you were highly unprofessional as far as he was concerned; high standards and whatnot. He’s eager, though, eager for work and to prove himself, he says. He constructs a maze that impresses Cobb, and in turn impresses Arthur, and Eames scoffs at its simplicity. Cobb’s projections begin to turn on them, and Arthur takes them out before Mal can appear and draw out the torture.

  


“I think you _liked_ shooting me in the head, love,” Eames tells him matter-of-factly after everyone else has gone. “Makes me a little uneasy, that.”

Arthur inhales and counts to ten before exhaling and looking up at him. “Well, it did make you shut up,” he responds, shuffling the papers in his hands. “Even you should know better than to draw attention to yourself in a dream, Eames.”

“You know how to shut me up, darling, and you needn’t use a gun to do so,” Eames says, leaning against Arthur’s desk. His large hands spread over his papers, and Arthur’s eyes narrow. “Or maybe you’ve forgotten,” he says after a beat. “Maybe that knowledge has been replaced by more boring information after all this time, yeah?”

“Playing the scorned lover doesn’t suit you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says evenly.

Eames chuckles softly and picks up a piece of paper, saying, “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Besides, can’t really play the part if the part isn’t yours to play.” He glances over the paper and Arthur snatches it away from him; he’s graced with a grin that equal parts cocky and wounded. “We had something good going, you know that don’t you, pet,” he says, his voice not as loud, not as boisterous, and he turns and heads out without another word. The next day, Arthur’s hand hurts from hitting his desk.

  


Arthur lays in bed, far too tired to sleep, and mulls over what Eames had said. _We had something good going, you know that don’t you, pet_ , and his laugh comes out with a bitter edge. They had something good, and neither of them even knew what they had. A few stolen nights in hotel rooms they’ll never see again, on sheets that have seen so many others before and after their time, and that was something good? That was self-destructive if Arthur has ever seen anything like it. What they had… It made room for error, which wasn’t allowed in their line of work. They had learned that the hard way.

Mal and Cobb had had something good. They had been brilliant and caring and kind, and they had loved one another. In the end, that had been their downfall. Arthur isn’t sure he can handle that same kind of heartbreak.

  


Eames toasts a job well-done with something that looks toxic in his hand; his cheeks are already flushed with drink and his laugh takes up the entirety of the small bar they’re celebrating in. Arthur hates him for it. He hates the way his voice makes that phantom ache return after it had finally disappeared; he hates the way it doesn’t sound right, doesn’t sound whole; he hates the way Eames keeps looking at him. For once, Eames is the first one to say farewell with some line about another possible job that needs his brand of expertise, and who was he to deny those fine people of his charm and presence? He claps Cobb on the back and shakes Nash’s hand, complimenting profusely on his maze, _even if it was shoddy at best, mate_ , and he squeezes Arthur’s shoulder like he did on the day of Mal’s funeral before he disappears into the night.

  


“I really do hate you,” Arthur says staring down at the busy streets of Mombasa. Sticky summer heat creeps in through the cracks around the window, and he loosens his tie; the sleeves of his white shirt are already pushed up to his elbows. “I hate you—“

“And yet you’re the one who follow me here, darling,” Eames interjects. Arthur hears the bed creak when the other man stands, and he grips the frame of the window so tightly his knuckles turn white. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered, but if you hate me so much, well, it doesn’t make any sense.” He leans against the other side of the window, arms folded across his broad chest, and Arthur frowns.

“There’s no rhyme or reason to madness,” he says.

Eames laughs that soft and intimate laugh, and Arthur closes his eyes as the Forger says, “Arthur, mad? That’s not possible. You have to be creative to go mad, love.”

“I followed you here, didn’t I?” Arthur asks and meets Eames’ eyes for the first time since Mal’s passing, and Eames smiles and responds, “Yeah, I guess you did.”

  


The bed isn’t nearly as soft as the one they shared in Los Angeles, but physical comfort is something easily exchanged for peace of mind. Eames murmurs promises and admonishments against his skin, and Arthur laughs breathlessly as his fingertips trail down his side. His lips leave a trail of fire burning across his skin, and Arthur arches into the touch, his own fingers carding through Eames’ hair as he slides almost lazily down his body. He shivers at the briefest touch, and he tries not to think of the consequences and what ifs and the problems this could pose. It’s easier to do than he thought possible.

His gasp quickly turns into a soft groan, forging a new identity for itself before it has even fully been born, and Arthur cants his hips up as Eames’ mouth envelops him almost completely. He hangs on for dear life, his fingers tangled in Eames’ soft hair, as he thrusts up and up and up; soft curses fall from his lips, and Eames places a steady hand on his hip to keep him grounded. He hums softly with Arthur still trying to desperately thrust into that intoxicatingly slick heat, and Arthur vaguely thinks that the tune sounds familiar before the world blurs a little more around the edges.

He kisses Eames desperately, just like the last time, but not because he needs to be held together, not because the world makes no sense. Arthur gasps into his mouth and digs his nails into Eames’ shoulders as the larger man fucks him into the unforgiving mattress beneath him. He hangs on for dear life, learning and relearning everything about Eames that he had forced himself to forget after Mal’s death, and Eames catches him before he falls over the proverbial edge. He kisses his forehead, his cheeks, his eyelids, everything he can reach, and Arthur smiles genuinely for the first time in a long time.

  


Somewhere on the floor, Arthur’s phone buzzes in the pocket of his trousers pocket, and he moves to answer it but Eames stops him. He presses a kiss to Arthur’s wrist, and Arthur inhales, counting to ten, and exhales.

  


There’s a single voicemail on his phone from Cobb. _It’s a job_ , the tinny voice says, _in Tokyo; meet me there. I’ll explain more later._ Arthur spends another night in the almost unbearable heat of Mombasa’s summer before he leave Eames at the gate of Moi International Airport. He looks back, but Eames has already disappeared into the crowd.


End file.
